


petty theft for penny crimes

by spock



Category: Patrik 1.5 (2008)
Genre: Age Difference, Age of Consent, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Comfort/Angst, Domestic, Dubious Consent Due To Identity Issues, Hurt/Comfort, Identity Porn, Identity Reveal, Jealousy, M/M, Minor Injuries, Secret Identity, Vigilantism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-19
Updated: 2015-06-19
Packaged: 2018-04-02 18:06:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,530
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4069504
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spock/pseuds/spock
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Patrik keeps his late-night heroics to himself. It's better to have Göran seeing him in a new light, even if he has no idea that it actually is Patrik who’s making that pleased flush settle over his face each morning.</p>
            </blockquote>





	petty theft for penny crimes

**Author's Note:**

  * For [SevlinRipley](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SevlinRipley/gifts).



Staring down at the papers in front of him, Patrik's not quite sure what he's seeing. **Application for Single Parent Adoption**. His heart's already racing, keyed up from watching Göran flip that asshole neighbor of theirs into the hard pebbled surface of their shared walkway, but if anything it feels like the thumping in his chest has kicked into overdrive once the meaning of the words finally start to seep into the adrenaline-haze clouding his mind.

Patrik knows he should be happy.

This, being adopted, for real, for _good_ : it's all he's ever wanted. Even a handful of weeks ago, back when Sven was around and Göran didn't mean shit to him, Patrik would've jumped at the chance to stay with them if they'd shown any hint of wanting him as their son, of him actually being the kid they'd been hoping to have show up at their door. Except it's _now_ , not then, and Patrik knows what it's like to go out jogging with Göran every morning, what it's like work alongside him in the garden, what Göran likes to snack on during fika, the grumpy look that settles over his face when he's talked himself into staying up past his usual bedtime, sat on the couch with a blanket wrapped around him so that he can finish whatever movie Patrik's got them watching on Netflix.

Now, Göran means everything to him, and as much as Patrik wants something to tie them together for real, for good, there's a part of him that feels like this is just shy of being right, like despite the fact that having a family is all he's ever wanted, this isn't the perfect solution.

Not at all.

 

* * *

 

Göran looks up when Patrik stomps down the stairs the next morning, fresh out of the shower. Patrik puffs out his chest as subtly as he can; he's still dripping, towel tossed over his head, no shirt, sweats riding low on his hips, but Göran's eyes roll off his half-naked form like water off a ducks back. Patrik feels himself deflate a little. He slumps into his chair, not so prideful that he doesn't pout at the way Göran's buried his head back into the newspaper he'd been reading.

"There's been another break in," Göran says, sounding worried, stressed, and Patrik hates it, his own pettiness forgotten. He reaches across the table and tugs the paper out from Göran's hands, turning it around so he can read it himself. "This time a few neighborhoods over," Göran continues, but Patrik zones him out as he reads over the article, eyes zeroing in on anything resembling a clue, a lead. Göran stands to fix Patrik some coffee, and Patrik mumbles his thanks when it and a plate of sandwiches are set in front of him.

He feels Göran's hand settle over his bare shoulder, squeezing gently, asking for his attention. Patrik gives it to him, shifts his gaze from the paper and up to Göran's face. He sees the worried look that Göran’s shooting his way and for a moment Patrik's both terrified that Göran believes Patrik's the one breaking into people's houses, and angry — angry at Göran for not trusting him, for thinking that Patrik's out there pulling meaningless, bullshit crimes.

"Do you still want to do those night runs?" Göran mumbles, like he's half-expecting Patrik to yell at him. And honestly, any other time Patrik would, but now he's just too relieved. The anger and fear he’d been feeling leaves him in a rush, the warm feeling of Göran's concern for him taking their place.

"I don't know if it's safe, Patrik," Göran continues, his thumb stroking a pattern into the stark line of Patrik's collarbone, his soft doctor hands gliding smoothly over the thin layer of skin. "Between this and those jerky neighbors..." He trails off, obviously still upset over the scene that happened yesterday. Patrik brings his hand up to rest overtop Göran's, patting it awkwardly a few times, his mind already moved on.

He's got an idea.

 

* * *

 

Back at Rönnbo, Patrik used to have this — hobby.

He loved comic books as a kid, grew up idolizing Batman, the orphan who never let his lack of parents define him. More than that, though, he _related_ to Robin, the original one, anyway. Dick Grayson, who grew up in a boys home, just like him, and who was kicked around, treated like he meant less than nothing by everyone, from the people who were supposed to look after him all the way down to the other boys who were somehow able to sniff out a brand of _otherness_ that Patrik hadn't even known he possessed, but that set him apart from the rest of them all the same.

Dick had Batman, though. He had Bruce and Alfred and Tim and Jason and even a dog, too. For as dark as his life got, Dick had a makeshift family, one that cared about him even during the times where he didn't want them to, and Patrik's never had any hopes that he'd get so lucky. He'd meant it when he'd told Göran that he didn't need family; what he needed was money.

Whatever it was Dick had that made people love him, Patrik's missing, and it's not the sort of thing you can teach yourself to have. Patrik knew from the jump that he'd be spending the rest of his life alone, and if Batman taught him anything, it's that money helps smooth the bitterness that comes along with having nobody.

Nothing makes people want to be around you like having money does.

So he'd done his best to be like Batman, like Robin. Snuck out late at night and practiced fighting moves, scaling the roof when it was pitch dark outside, working on his balance, his agility. He started grappling with himself while he was supposed to have been tending to the garden, dodging away from make-believe bad guys. He lifted the rusted, too-heavy toolbox that housed his gardening supplies as a makeshift dumbbell, trying to build his strength.

At first he wasn't sure that it would work, that he wasn't getting any better, but the next time that a couple of the boys tried to start shit with him, Patrik completely demolished them. A few more repeat performances and by the end of the week suddenly nobody was picking on him anymore; they moved out of the way when Patrik walked past them in the hallway, kept their eyes down.

Fear wasn't money, but until Patrik managed to hit it big, he figured that it was the next best thing.

 

* * *

 

Now that he knows Göran better, Patrik can't help but think that maybe having a family wouldn't be so bad. He's not interested in a father, though, and if anything, him teaching Göran how to fight means that _Patrik's_ Batman, and that makes Göran's his Robin.

 

* * *

 

Patrik goes out for his run in the too-bright, nerdy reflective jogging suit Göran's bought for him. He's barely turned the corner at the end of their block before he's out of it — stuffing the yellow bits of clothing into a bag he'd hidden in the bushes that afternoon — until he's left in nothing but black sweats, his form melting in into the dark night.

He digs a knit ski-mask out of his pocket and pulls it over his face. Just before Patrik left the house he nicked it from the garage and cut it in half, so that it stops at his nose, covering up everything northwards, except for the holes for his eyes.

After a couple of hours he's stopped a grand total of three kids from tagging a freshly re-painted wall and prevented one asshole fox from knocking over a trash bin. It's hardly glamorous, but Patrik tells himself that their neighborhood isn't exactly Gotham City; it’d be unrealistic to expect there to be something exciting to tackle every night. He snags the bag he hid his jogging gear in, putting it all back on before heading home, reasoning to himself that every hero has to start _somewhere_.

He peeks in through the window of his and Göran's house to see Göran sacked out on the couch, obviously having passed out trying to wait for Patrik to get home, safe and sound. Patrik scales his way up a drainpipe and lets himself into his bedroom through the window.

He takes a shower and changes into his pajamas, ghosting down the stairs as quietly as he can before making a show of waking Göran up.

"Don't you have to go to work tomorrow, what are you doing?" Patrik chastises, letting some frustration slip into his voice. He's not some baby, and he's not Göran's kid; Göran doesn't have to stay up to make sure Patrik obeys curfew.

"When did you get in?" Göran mumbles. "Why're you wet?" He must still be half asleep, because he completely forgets to be mindful of Patrik's personal space. He wraps both arms around Patrik as if this is something they do all the time, pulling him into a hug.

Patrik's never been more aware of how much taller than him Göran is; the top of Patrik's head just barely passes the tip of Göran's chin, and it pisses him off a little bit, but they've never hugged like this before, so Patrik lets it go. He's still growing anyway, and even if he never gets as freaky-tall as Göran is, plenty of couples are different heights.

"I've been here for hours," Patrick says , voice muffled from how his face is pressed into the soft t-shirt Göran's wearing. "I'm not a baby, you know."

Göran hums and turns his head. When he sighs out, "I know", Patrick _feels_ it, his lips catching against Patrik's hair.

 

* * *

 

He keeps on going like that for about a week, stopping petty crimes that would probably warrant a fine more than a jail sentence. There's been far less to grumble about in this small cul-de-sac of theirs, and people notice. All it takes is a few of the neighborhood kids staying up past their bedtime and lurking at their windows, peeking their heads around the curtains all night and _finally_ catching sight of Patrik's shadowed form, and just like that people really start to notice that it’s not so much as the criminals getting bored as it is that they’re being _thwarted_.

There's talk of their own friendly neighborhood vigilante cleaning up the streets. Little puff pieces that are put into the town’s newspaper, ones that Göran reads about the following morning, smiling to himself over the goodness that exists in the world.

Patrik wants to tell Göran so badly that it's _him_ who's doing this. That he can direct any and all words of praise right to Patrik's face. That it's Patrik he should be proud of. But —

He holds himself back, because Göran would probably tell Patrik to stop, that it's too dangerous. Besides, it's better to have Göran seeing him in a new light, even if he has no idea that it actually is Patrik who’s making that pleased flush settle over his face each morning.

 

* * *

 

Patrik's finishing up the rescue a fat tabby from a tree when he hears someone whisper-shouting his name. It's Göran, obviously, and Patrik stills, figures that he's caught.

When he peaks out from behind the bushes he’d dived into just few seconds prior, he sees that Göran's eyes are still darting around, searching for him. He’s wearing the same sort of neon jogging suit that Patrik’s supposed to be wearing himself, although it looks about ten times better on Göran than it ever does on Patrik.

Patrik debates the merits of revealing himself or not, eager to talk to Göran knowing just how much he idolizes Patrik like this, yet unsure of how well his costume hides his identity. He’s about ready to throw all caution to the wind when he notices that there’s a sweaty guy sneaking up on Göran from behind, knife glinting even in the weak light coming from the streetlamp half a block away.

So Patrik springs into action, launching himself over Göran's shoulder and not even pretending to hide the satisfied smirk that spreads across his face when Göran squeaks in surprise. In one practiced move, Patrik kicks the knife out of the guy's hands, and in another he's bringing his leg back down and connecting his calf with the man’s neck, knocking him down to the hard pavement and stunning him for a second.

There's nothing more that Patrik wants to do than keep wailing on this guy, but Patrik knows that Göran's the type who'll try to stop him, to pull him off. There fear of Göran realizing who Patrik is from the moment touches him is the only thing that keeps him in check.

Instead, he looms, lets the black of his clothing bleed into the dark around him, making him look taller, broader than he really is. "Don't ever come back," Patrik growls between gritted teeth, letting his voice come out in a rasp, hoping that it's enough to mask his identity from Göran. His words shake the would-be thief from his stupor. The man nods half a dozen times before scrambling back onto two feet and breaking into an outright sprint in the opposite direction, getting himself as far away from Patrik as possible.

" _Wow_." It's pitched so low that Patrik probably wasn't supposed to hear it, but he's keyed up so much that his ears pick up on the barely-there words all the same. He turns to look at Göran, who's got one hand half-covering his mouth, his eyes shiny and bright as they look at Patrik in awe. "Oh, wow," Göran says again, louder this time, as if he's come back to himself.

"Are you alright?" Patrik asks, still growling; Göran nods, as earnest as he ever is, and something in the motion gives Patrik the courage to tack on, "Somebody as good looking as you shouldn't be out here alone at night. Don't you have a boyfriend to run with you?"

The flush that settles over Göran's face makes something settle deep in Patrik's gut, but then Göran, tripping over his words, manages to ask, "Um, yeah actually have you — have you seen a young man who was dressed like me?" And just like that the feelings gone, replaced by something twisted and dark: jealousy. 

Here he is, basically a whole new person, someone who Göran has no baggage with, no history, and yet he's still thinking of Patrik. Patrik knows that should make him feel better — in theory. Göran isn't throwing himself at any man who gives him the time of day, after all, but that knowledge doesn't stop him from feeling ever so slightly pissed.

Clenching his fists at the realization, Patrik comes to the conclusion that he’s actually jealous of _himself_. Patrik hates it — hates himself. A chance to finally have what he wants and here he is, getting in his own way, one of his personas forever causing his other grief, no matter if Patrik is pretending to be normal-by-day and a hero-by-night or just hiding the scared kid inside him behind an asshole, tough guy exterior. He always seems to find new and horrible ways to spite himself. He’s fucking sick of it.

"Yeah," Patrik says, and this time it's no strain for him to grind his teeth together as he speaks. "I saw a kid looping back towards 515 about five minutes ago."

"Thank God," Göran breathes, and then the earnest look is right back on his face. "Thank you for saving me," he says, shyly, that blush of his back in full force.

Something inside Patrik snaps into place, and his earlier smirk reappears as he says, "What? Don't I get something more than that? I did _save you_ after all." Göran's face blanks out before he actually looks charmed, his flush settling down as a smile overtakes his lips, as much of a smirk as a nice guy like Göran will ever manage. Patrik realizes that this is the most he's acted like himself — as _Patrik_ — since they started speaking, and a part of him really hopes that he didn't just give himself away, even though a larger part of mind is shouting that maybe Patrik wants to be caught, for Göran to find out.

Göran's walks up to him, presses a kiss to his cheek, and all Patrik's concerns go flying out of his head as he allows himself to bask in this, the feel of Göran's lips against his skin. Patrik's prickly behavior at the start of their relationship had the adverse effect of making is so that Göran's never to so much as tried to kiss him on the forehead before, and at first Patrik had wanted to beat himself over the head for being such an idiot, for making Göran afraid to even try, but now he's glad — glad that this first not-really kiss isn't anything close to familial, to platonic, even if it is chaste.

Emboldened, Patrik finds the nerve to turn his head just as Göran's pulling away. He quickly presses their lips together, into an actual kiss, allows himself a few seconds of just that before parting their lips to say, "Yup, that'll do," and then he runs off into the night, jogging double time and looping through backyards so that he can make it home and out of his disguise before Göran returns.

 

* * *

 

Göran's lost to the world the next morning. Unable to resist, Patrik asks if anything happened the night before.

Göran's flush would tell Patrik _everything_ he needed to know, even if he hadn't been there to witness it himself. "Oh ho, what's _that_ face supposed to mean?" Patrik pushes.

With a bit more prodding, he gets Göran to give him a recap of the night, about how he went out looking for Patrik and nearly got himself stabbed by some mugger in the process. "Holy shit," Patrik says, and without the adrenaline from last night casting a fog around his mind, he actually finds himself meaning it, nearly having forgot that part of the night completely in his frenzied reliving of their kiss. "Do I have to train you how to fight again? Are you alright?"

Göran nods, earnest as always, and says, "Yes, I could have shaken him off easy, it's just — I didn't have too? That masked guy stepped in before I even had to try."

"The masked guy?" Patrik makes sure to keep his voice level, inserting a slight bit of incredulousness. "You actually met him? What's he's like?"

Göran starts gathering up their plates and stands from the table, eyes flicking to the clock hanging on the wall near the door, _anything_ , Patrik thinks, darkly, to avoid looking at Patrik's face. "Oh Patrik," the calmness of Göran's voice is undermined by the tension coiled within his body as he clumsily slides their plates into the sink. "It's not like we had time for smalltalk; he saved me and then I went home? We're not pals now or anything."

"So you didn't speak at all," Patrik says. Göran's cageyness starts to piss him off a bit, though he has no idea if it's because Göran's downplaying what happened the night before — their kiss, their _first_ kiss — or if it's because he's keeping something from Patrik, lying right to his face. The jealousy he’d felt last night comes bubbling back up, resettling itself in his gus, as if it’d never left. Maybe it hadn’t.

"Well of course I said ‘thank you’, Patrik," Göran reassures him with a huff, "It's just that we didn't really have anything of substance to say."

Finally, for what feels like the first time that morning, Göran turns and looks at Patrik's face, exasperated. Patrik's not expecting it. He tries to school his features, tries to bite back this deep seated bitterness and jealousy within him, but he must not be quick enough, because the bemused look on Göran's face falls away to something much more worried, frown pulling down at the corners of his lips. Tentatively, he makes his way over to the table and when Patrik doesn't even pretend to shy away, he wraps his arms around Patrik's shoulders where he's still seated in his chair, hugging Patrik's head into his stomach. "Oh Patrik," Göran sighs, "I'm alright, don't worry. I wouldn't let anything happen. I won't leave you alone."

Patrik's breath hitches. He catches Göran's hips in his hands, fingers digging into the fabric of Göran's pants. Patrik allows himself a few moments to press his face into Göran's belly, taking comfort that’s being freely given, let's Göran's scent become the only thing that registers in his mind, settling him, before he finally pulls back.

"Don't you need to go to work, Doctor Lazy?" Patrik's voice is steady as he speaks, almost like the last few minutes never happened.

 

* * *

 

Göran's still up when Patrik sneaks back around on his second loop of patrolling, poking around in the garden. He’s probably trying to keep his body moving so that he'll be awake to make sure Patrik's gotten back safely from his run. It takes Patrik all of two seconds to decide that he's due for a break, and only a few more for him to hop the fence encasing their yard and sneak his way up behind an unsuspecting Göran.

He’s on his back before he even realizes what's happened. Patrik stares up at Göran dazedly, wind knocked out of his lungs in such a rush that he's forced to draw in deep gulps of breath to replenish what he's lost.

"Oh my god, I'm _so_ sorry," Göran squeaks. "I thought — oh, never mind, are you alright?" He sticks his hand out and Patrik reaches up for it silently, getting a good grip before yanking hard and pulling Göran down until he's flat on the ground as well, perpendicular to the way Patrik is, his chest flush with Patrik's. Before Göran has the chance to move or speak or _think_ , Patrik arches his back, pressing up to kiss Göran before either of them has the chance to think the better of it.

Patrik keeps his eyes open as the kiss settles into something real, staring up into Göran's startled gaze. Out of the corner of his vision he's able to see the way Göran's hands grab awkwardly at the grass beneath them, fingers twitching. Tentatively, Patrik parts his lips a little, tongue peaking out to lick at Göran's mouth. Göran released his hold on the lawn and drags his hands over to cup themselves around Patrik's jaw, holding his face as the kiss becomes heated, Göran parting his lips so that they're finally kissing _properly_.

They nip and lick at each other's lips, the world quiet around them. It's easy to hear the slick noises of their mouths, their panted breath. Patrik grabs at Göran's shoulders and tugs, hooking a leg around Göran's and squirming around until Göran's draped over him from head to toe. Patrik slowly starts to rub their bodies together, trapping Göran's thigh between his legs so that he can hump up into it. Göran starts thrusting back against him and he feels as if his heart might just burst from his chest.

One of the neighbor's dogs a few houses down starts to bark, but Patrik doesn't pay it any mind, too engrossed in what is decidedly the greatest moment of his life thus far. Göran jolts, though, pulling away from Patrik and swinging himself up until he's standing on his knees, like a vampire rising up from its coffin in reverse. "Fuck," he says, finally letting go of Patrik's face so that he can grab his own instead, repeating _fuck_ into his hand as he wipes at his mouth. "Patrik will be home soon, you have to go."

"Wha— " Patrik mumbles. His mind feels like it's all stuffed up, lips still tingling with the phantom touch of Göran. He almost says, _I'm right here, you idiot_ , but he stops himself just in time, remembering that he is, in fact, not himself. Right now he’s just some nameless guy that Göran's kissed the two whole times they've met. That dissatisfaction of his comes rushing back, the jealousy, and Patrik presses his lips together into a thin line, an angry slash cutting across the only half of his face that isn't covered by his mask.

"Right," Patrik growls. "Bye."

Hopping their little fence is a million times harder going out than it was coming in.

 

* * *

 

Patrik wakes early the next morning and goes straight into the garden, taking out his agitation on the latest crop of weeds that've sprung themselves out of the ground. He thinks that maybe he should have stayed out later, rather than coming straight back home. Not just to spite Göran, although the thought is there — mostly he just wished that he'd had the chance to beat up some asshole kids, work this keyed-up tension out of his system instead of letting it stew and fester inside him overnight.

After a few hours, Göran pokes his head out of the back door and calls for him to come in and get breakfast. Patrik, still feeling spurned, snaps, "Oh, so _now_ you wanna spend time with me," tossing the words over his shoulder as he shoves past Göran and into the house, stomping to the kitchen sink to wash his hands.

They eat their breakfast in silence, sneaking glances at one another and dropping their eyes back down to the table whenever their gazes catch. Patrik starts to feel like shit for treating Göran this way. He's sure Göran has no idea why Patrik's even mad at him, but Patrik isn't big enough to say sorry, not over this.

He spends the rest of the day locked up in his room, skipping out on lunch and refusing to come down for dinner. It’s not long before Göran caves on his insistences that if Patrik doesn’t come out then Göran won’t feed him at all, and leaves a plate outside his door.

Patrik sneaks out that night, not even bothering with his usual jogging excuse, not even bothering to tell Göran that he’s left at all. He goes farther out of their neighborhood than usual, and winds up breaking up a fight for his trouble. He absolutely loves it, taking on four assholes at once, hauling them down to the ground so he can grapple with them properly, throwing the entirety of his weight behind each swing.

 

* * *

 

Patrik wakes up feeling much better than he had the day before. Even with the anger drained from his system, breakfast between he and Göran is a quiet affair, the two of them still tentative and on shaky ground, unused to being angry with one another. Awkwardly, Patrik reaches for his glass of juice, forgetting about how fucked up his hands are as a result of last night’s caped crusading. His hand never reaches the cup, as Göran gasps and snatches Patrik's hand out of the air.

"Oh geez," Göran hisses. For one heart-stopping second, Patrik wonders if he's been caught, if Göran will connect the dots — but then Göran says, "Did you hurt yourself gardening yesterday? Jesus, why didn't you say? I'll always take care of you, Patrik, even when you're mad at me!"

Patrik hunches in on himself, eyes cast downward, unable to meet Göran's. He feels his face heat up, ashamed for being as much of an asshole as he’s been. His fingers twitch a few times before he finally gives in and wraps them around Göran's, wincing at the way at it pulls on his bruised knuckles. "I know," he mutters, "Sorry."

"It's alright," Göran promises. "You've got me, and I've got you, no matter what." He tugs on their joined hands and lures Patrik across the house and into the bathroom, where he sits Patrik down on the closed toilet seat and sets himself to mending Patrik's hands.

The air is quiet between them, but it's not the same sad silence as earlier. Patrik keeps his eyes on Göran the entire time he puts peroxide all over Patrik's knuckles before slathering the skin with way more ointment than it needs and binding them gently in a gauze bandage, so, _so_ careful the entire time, as if Patrik were made of glass.

 

* * *

 

After that, Patrik finds himself doling out proper vigilante-type justice more and more, and the bruises he begins to get in increasingly strange places just goes to highlight the change in his routine. He tries to be smarter about it, takes to wearing gloves so that his hands don't get so busted up, but sometimes the random bruise here or there is unavoidable.

He tells Göran that they're the sad results of him being clumsy in his landscaping work, and Göran, trusting as ever, patches him up and accepts his reasoning without so much as a drawn-out blink.

 

* * *

 

Some asshole manages to get the jump on Patrik. It's only for a second, and Patrik regains the upper-hand nearly as quickly, but it's enough to leave Patrik with a busted lip that he has no idea how to even begin explaining to Göran — and then things go from bad to worse when he runs into Göran on his way home.

Göran spots him right away. Patrik’s still got his mask on, even though just a few minutes ago he'd been tempted to take it off, and him deciding against that urge is the only thing keeping him from suspecting the universe of conspiring against him.

He jogs over and begins to fuss over Patrik, grabbing hold of his chin and twisting it up so that his face is illuminated by the nearest streetlamp. "Why does everybody I like have to keep getting themselves hurt," Göran grumbles. "First Patrik, now you." Patrik's breath catches in his throat and Göran glances up at him, frowning deeper. "Not that I've seen you much, lately." He doesn't sound all that upset about it. Patrik’s not sure if he’s pleased at the thought.

"Who _is_ Patrik?" This might be his best chance to see where Göran's feelings lie, and he's not about to pass up on it. "You're always talking about him. Is he your boyfriend? Can't imagine he'd be alright with all our kissing."

Göran sputters indignantly. "No," he all but shouts, and Patrik has no idea if Göran upset that Patrik's insinuated that they're dating or for implying that Göran's the type of guy to go around kissing strangers when he's already got a boyfriend. "He's — well he's my," Göran stumbles over his words, his face heating up in a blush that makes the stubble covering his jaw seem just that much more blond, throwing the hair into stark relief. "He's my _family_."

Patrik's heart speeds up, his own cheeks flushing, and without thinking he leans in and kisses Göran as deep as he can, joyous, pressing all of his feelings into the nonexistent space between their mouths, opening wide. The motion pulls on his lip and he jerks head head back, hissing in pain, his skin taking on an entirely different heat compared to what he was feeling before, because now all he feels like is an idiot.

He pulls away, shaking his head. Göran stares at him, shocked, probably at Patrik's intensity. As far as Göran knows, they're strangers, and all of a sudden Patrik's so tired of it all. He turns and starts to walk away, getting a few paces between them before something occurs to him and he turns around, defeated. "Don't be mad," he mutters, hand pressed against his lip, muffling his voice.

Göran comes back to himself and asks, confused, "Mad about what?"

"Just — don't be mad." It's all he can think to say. Patrik turns and breaks into a run, ignoring Göran's shouts of _Hey! Wait!_

 

* * *

 

Patrik stays hidden up in his room for as long as he can, but eventually Göran threatens to drag him out of bed by his toes if he doesn't come downstairs and have breakfast already. He makes his way down the stairs, a prisoner awaiting execution, each step heavier than the last, the weight of the world on his shoulders.

When he enters the kitchen, Göran's at the stove, his back to Patrik, bitching about one thing or another, delaying Patrik's fate for just a few more moments.

Patrik sits down and waits.

Göran finally turns around, still chattering away happily about his plans for them that weekend, setting a cup down in front of Patrik's plate before taking a seat in his usual chair. At Patrik's non-responsiveness, he finally pauses and looks up, a half-smile spread across his face, but his expression drops right to the floor when he sees Patrik's mouth.

Patrik can't take it.

"Don't be mad,” he blurts out, words tumbling out from between his lips in a rush. His eyes start to well, because they’re bastards that have always gone from zero to sixty in no time flat, no matter how hard he tries to beat his feel down, push them back, and Göran's going to be so _mad_ , and he's probably going to call the agency and tell them to reverse the adoption or something, and Patrik's still _crying_ , isn't doing anything to prove that he's an adult, that he's boyfriend material.

So Patrik does what he's always done best: runs.

His chair scrapes against the floor as he shoves himself away from the table, practically throwing himself into the living room, his vision too watery to make movement anything more than a chore.

He's almost expecting it when Göran tackles him onto the couch, the two of them half-landing onto the floor, their knees banging hard against the wood. Patrik finds himself crying a little bit harder, mad that he couldn't even do this right, his dramatic escape. Göran twists and turns them until he's got Patrik's face buried in his neck as he holds him, making shushing noises, trying to get Patrik to calm down, but Patrik — he can't. He keeps chanting _don't be mad_ into the skin of Göran's shoulder, hysterical in his fear.

"I'm _not_ mad," Göran promises, his voice pulled taut and then. "Just — why? I don't — Patrik, what?" He sounds so confused, lost, like he has no idea what's real anymore, and that's the last thing Patrik wants.

"I just — I'm not your son. You know that. I'll never be," his breath stutters and hiccups, caught in his throat, words taking ages to come out, stuttered as they are. Patrik has no idea what he wants to say, how to phrase it in a way that makes sense, that fully encompasses what it is that he feels. Finally he settles on, "We're _family_ ," because it's the only thing that even remotely comes close.

Göran sucks in a gasp, but otherwise stops talking, stops trying to get Patrik to talk. All he does is hold Patrik just that much tighter, pulling his long legs up so that Patrik's cradled between them, Göran's whole body wrapping around Patrik's, keeping him self.

They stay like that until Patrik can't cry any longer, his eyes sore and dry, his throat tight and sandpaper rough. He sniffs pathetically. Göran squeezes him one last time before snagging an abandoned bottle of water off the coffee table, unscrewing the lid before wordlessly passing it to Patrik.

"Patrik," Göran's voice sounds terrible, like maybe he'd cried a little too, and Patrik feels like an asshole for being so caught up in his own shit that he didn't even notice Göran losing his shit too. "We can be a family without you being my son, but we can be a family without _that_ too, Patrik. You know that, right? We've been a family just fine without it. Without either of those things."

"It's not," Patrik rushes to say, then he forces himself to calm down. He doesn't want to get worked up again. "It's not like that. I don't want it because of that." He takes another deep breath, steeling himself, and then chances at look at Göran's face, suddenly feeling just as shy as he did on the day he first knocked on the door of this house.

Göran's looking directly at him, and he smiles, squeezing Patrik tighter. It's the push he needs to power through, "I've never wanted to be your kid. Not ever, not once. When I started to like you — it was never platonic. I went from nothing to, well, to _feelings_ ," he admits, finally, feeling like an idiot, because none of that really makes any sense at all. He’s never been good at words, probably never will be, and it’s that that makes up his mind.

Tentatively, Patrik leans in, closing the distance between them, almost awkwardly slow, giving Göran more than enough time to stop him if this isn't what he wants. When their lips meet, Patrik kisses Göran as gently as they can, and thinks to himself that _this_ is their first real kiss. "It's not too weird, right?" Patrik asks. His lips catch on Göran's as he speaks.

There's a heavy pause, Göran rolling his lips into his mouth, obviously considering his answer, pulling back slightly so that they’re nose-to-nose rather than mouth-to-mouth when he eventually gives his answer.

"Well," Göran says, "yes, sorry, it's kinda weird." Patrik groans, feeling defeated. He lets his head drop down into the curve of Göran's neck, resting his forehead there. Göran hums, rubbing his hand up and down Patrik's back, fingers tracing the knobs of Patrik's spine through his shirt, considering.

"Hey," Göran prompts, shrugging his shoulder. Patrik lets his head loll to the side, glancing up at Göran out of the corner of his eye. Göran smiles at him warmly and says, "Homo."

Patrik chokes on his own spit, aghast. " _You_ ," Patrik mutters, gritting his teeth. “There's nothing _wrong_ with being a homo, okay? That's what we are, right? Two homos living together."

The last thing that Patrik expects is the weirdly proud look that settles over Göran's face, like Patrik just gave the most perfect answer to something that wasn't even a question. He's even more shocked when Göran ducks his head down and presses a kiss to Patrik's cheek.

What doesn’t surprise him, though, is the instant need for _more_ that steams up inside of him, and a pout settles across his lips before he really even thinks about it. Göran reads him like a book, just as he always does, and so he says, "Hey, baby steps," before Patrik can even bitch about it.

"A quick one, on the lips," Patrik demands, narrowing his eyes, glaring at Göran, a look that Göran mirrors right back in Patrik’s direction.

Göran doesn't move back when Patrik springs forward and steals a kiss, rapid-quick.

All in all, Patrik figures that he can work with baby steps.

It's not like Göran hasn't always let Patrik get away with whatever he wants, anyway.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to Lynn for betaing this for me. There are probably still little errors here or there because I've continued pecking at this thing even after I got the final draft looked at, but at this point I've stared at it too long so my eyes can't catch them. 
> 
> I had a lot of fun finding ways to work in as many of your likes and ideas as I could! Thank you for such good prompts ♡ I hope you like it.


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